Sacrifice
by Bounty Money
Summary: Dean infiltrates a homeless shelter while hunting demons. Takes place pre-series, shortly before he goes to get Sam. I'm trying something new in terms of storytelling modes. It's POV/Realtime, which means that Dean is telling the story as it happens. This may or may not work. It's an experiment. Rated M for Mature. Violence, mayhem, swearing and carnage.
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's ****Note:**I don't own Supernatural or the characters. They belong to CW, Eric Kripke, et. al. I am making no money from this._

"Come on, come on." I glance over my shoulder, taking three or four big pulls off the cheap bottle of whiskey before pouring the rest on the ground so my shoes soak up the fumes. I collapse into the puddle of booze; roll around in the garbage around me like I'm trying to get up from falling over. I don't like looking too conspicuous. I gotta sell this performance if I'm going to lock my target in. Yeah, I used the word conspicuous; sue me. Sammy's not the only one with brains in this family. I've worked hard to cultivate this drunk-ass redneck cover. Speaking of which: "Hey, man, you see a…um…a really tall fuckin' dude walk by here? I'm so fuckin'…fucked up, and he's s'poseda be my ride."

The guy's smiling at me like he's won the lotto. "Yeah, might've. What's his name, buddy?"

"Christo…" I'm only half-pretending to try holding back vomit. That shit was disgusting. "Christo…uh, fuck it. His name's Chris. Fag keeps wantin' me to use his full name, ya know? Stupid fuckin' idiot."

I see the flinch, but the demon's just thinking I'm dinner. Who'd suspect the filthy drunk lurching around an alley, right? "This…Chris, what's he to you?"

"AA sponsor," I slur. "Please tell me you saw 'im; he ain't harda miss, freakin' Sasquatch motherfucker. He's gonna be fuckin' pissed. Fell off th'wagon, man. Screwed the fuckin' pooch tonight."

Demon boy's eyes light up. "I run a meeting in the community center across the road, if you want to join me. We can help you sober up a little before he gets here, maybe get to the bottom of why you…screwed the pooch, as you said, and decided to drink tonight."

Yatzee. I'm in. I've been trying to get into this guy's lair since last weekend. I know there've got to be more than one of him inside; this is strictly recon. I can play tragic drunk for a night, scope out how many are inside, then start planning. I stagger along behind Mr. Clean-cut Missionary into a craptastic office building that's been converted into a place called "The Walking Wounded." More than one something in this place's been taking guys out of bars and turning them into dinner for a few months and the death rates ratcheted up from one to about three or four every couple weeks. People noticed.

"What's your name, son?" a grandfatherly former biker type asks as I stand behind Mr. Missionary with my eyes glazed over. The three belts are hitting me a little and my head's buzzing

"Dean." I make sure my eyes are wandering all over the place, not settling down. Drunks aren't exactly known for being attentive to what's going on, which is what I'm banking on. Biker grandpa's looking at me like I'm some pathetic shit-stained, kicked puppy or something. I'd been working up the post-cry snot nosed look earlier, too. It helps, trust me.

"Hoo, boy." Grandpa says, waving his hand in front of his face. "You need to get outta those clothes. Let me take you to the bathroom and help clean you up a bit."

"Christo…Chris ain' gonna like you takin' a'vannage of a…a guy like that, man," I say with a cheesy grin. "He's got stannards about no crossin' sponsor lines like that. 'Sides, I like girls, dude. Not drunk enough for you to be that pretty."

Biker Gramps laughs good-naturedly but doesn't flinch at Christo; he isn't one of them. Good. "Kid, you're in AA, the others ain't gonna be able to get comfortable so close to the smell you're giving off."

"Oh yeah." I lean into him like I'd lost my balance and let him steer me toward a bathroom. I don't like this development, but I have to get him to trust me. "Forgot. Sorry."

Gramps, he says his name's Bill, helps me out of my jacket and shirt. I go as limp as I can, being as uncoordinated as possible. I trip on my pants a couple times, don't mean to, then I'm standing in a bathtub in my boxers.

"You want to tell me about what made you fall off the wagon, son?"

I blink up at him. "Ain't that wha' I'm gonna do in the group anyway?"

"Not if you don't want to."

I lurch back and trip on my feet when Bill turns showerhead on and the freezing water hits me full blast. I nearly conk my head on the wall, but he catches me.

"Whoa, easy there, buddy."

"F-f-fuck! Th-that's c-cold!" I'm not kidding, either. The shrinkage issue alone has me gasping and sputtering. "T-tryin'a k-kill me?"

He chuckles and hands me a washcloth and soap. "Just give it a minute, you'll be fine."

I have to keep the charade moving, so I slink down into the tub and wrap my arms around me knees. The story I came up with is a nice tear-jerker; hell it even choked me up when I sounded it out in front of a mirror. Now I just had to tell it right.

"Sure you're all right, Dean?" Bill asked, leaning forward on the toilet to get my attention. "You don't need to go in front of the group if you don't want to. It's okay to talk here."

I glare up at him with a full blast of distrust and paranoia; easy to fake if I just imagine Grizzly Adams there trying to get into my pants. "I ain't no fag," I spit at him.

"Dean, I'm a certified clinical psychologist. I am not hitting on you."

Huh, who knew. I take a deep breath and let it out shakily. The cold water helps with that; I'm trembling like crazy. "I…I can't."

"Can't?"

Jesus, I almost can't lie to this guy. He's clean, probably in danger, and he truly wants to help "drunk, hopeless Dean." Shit, of all the times to have a conscience. I shake my head to get the water and 'tears' out of my eyes. "I just wanted to forget. What's wrong with that, huh?"

Bill puts a hand on my left shoulder. "Forget what, son?"

I bury my head under my arms. "Them, the..the kids I keep seein'."

"Dean, it's all right."

I look up. "You ever seen someone beheaded right in front of you?"

He sits back; I've shocked him. "Jesus."

"Fuck all right. I'd rather be dead."

"No, you don't, Dean."

I don't say anything for a while; just let the water warm me up now that it's getting hot. He's formed an idea of his own, now time to really sell it. I'd read the news about some soldiers POWs being returned from Iraq a few years back and decided to use the premise for this gig. Makes me feel like shit to do it, considering the situation, but there are greater stakes right now. Just have to make sure it's not too lurid or I can't sell it. Dude, I love that word. Lurid. I think I'm a little drunk. "I thought I had the flashbacks under control, Bill. I swear, I did! I went to therapy and all that shit. I haven't touched the bottle in…two years. I….I just couldn't….I kept seeing those two little girls again and…"

Bill moves so that he can squat next to the tub. "What happened to bring the flashbacks, Dean?"

"They cut their heads off, Bill. Those fucking towel-heads cut those girls' heads off in front of me because I wouldn't tell where the rest of my unit was heading!" I let out a few shudders and sobs. "I just wanted it to go away."

"Dean, flashbacks don't just come up out of nowhere. They're triggered by stress, and even if you don't think so, small events can set that trigger off. What's happened to you lately?"

I look up at him. Dude knows his shit; have to hand it to him. "I…My car…I was rear-ended last week." That was true, actually. Fucking lunatic soccer mom rammed me and I wound up with the ticket even though she was the one who didn't slow down for the stop light. I sighed. "Just a stupid accident."

"There's no such thing as a 'stupid accident,' son." Bill says, helping me to my feet. "Let me ask you a few questions while you wash up. You don't need to answer me, just nod or shake your head."

"Okay."

"You have a lot of scars."

"Who doesn't?"

"Are most of them from combat?"

I nod. Just not from the kind of combat he's thinking.

"When you were captured, did they ambush your convoy?"

Huh, give the man a penny, he reads his news. I nod again.

"I'm thinking the flashbacks started shortly after the accident, am I right?"

"Same night."

He looks at me with one of those fatherly stares Dad never quite got the hang of. I can see why he's a psychologist; Sammy's own puppy-dog look isn't even in the same league. This guy's a master. "And they got worse over the last couple days, didn't they?"

I look down at my feet, letting him think it's a yes.

"You felt like you should be able to handle it because you'd been through previous therapies, but then tonight the flashbacks became too much. Does that sound about right?"

My stomach gurgled, I got queasy. Just on time. Thank God for thinking ahead and downing that ipecac with the whiskey on the way in. Sometimes I have to be Method. I make a face and groan as my gut tries crawling out my throat. "I'mma be sick."

"Come on, you're pruning up anyway." Bill turns off the shower and wraps a towel around my shoulders. "This isn't the end of the world, Dean. Yeah, you fucked up, but I understand why. Trauma like what you've been through is harder to heal and drinking until you're numb is understandable. This is why John and I started the Walking Wounded in the first place. I was in Vietnam, kid; I know how these post-war hurts can screw up your life."

Fuck, I didn't anticipate that. These guys being killed in the shelter were homeless vets and I was pretending to be one of them. If they find out I'm a fake, they'll fuckin' kill me. Ugh, never mind that, I just need to get through horking up my last three meals. My arms tremble against the strain of puking and I want to pass out, but Bill's there saying it's not my fault. God, I'm such a dick.

There's a knock on the door and Bill gets up to let Missionary Demon in. I can feel the fucker's evil on the back of my neck. "John."

"I can't do this," I groan.

"He's in rough shape, there's no way he can go to the meeting." Bill is saying. "Any word about his sponsor?"

"Guy never showed," John-Demon says. "Makes me wonder if he even gives a shit about this kid."

Bill growls in his throat. "Son of a bitch; don't they care about these guys? They give up their lives for those fuckers and this is how they get repaid?"

Jesus, Bill's honestly in this for the vets. I can't stop heaving and now I'm crying for real. Shit, I hate puking. I think I took too much ipecac, this isn't good.

"I've got beds in the back, Dean. Come on," Bill says, helping me to my feet. "There's some old donated clothes back there, too."

"Th…hurk…thanks."

"I'll leave a bucket by the bed."

I just nod and let him lead me to the back room. I'm too far in it to ditch now.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Author's Note: **Don't own 'em, just experimenting. Not making money, either._

The room Bill's letting me stay in is small, has two beds and I don't have to share with anyone yet. I don't fake my nightmares; I just lie about what they're about. I've been here two days and so far, John hasn't made a move to out himself. I don't know if I'm dealing with the possession of a corpse or if the real guy's in there somewhere. I don't know how to tell, either. I tried calling Dad last night to get his take on it, but I can't get ahold of him. I don't want to bother Sammy; he's busy with that Sanford law thing of his.

I made breakfast this morning; Bill's making me pull my weight since I'm sticking around. I'm "damaged" but not broken, according to him. Luckily, he's not pushing the religious bit of the twelve-step program.

* * *

"Dean, you mind taking out the trash?" Bill asks from the kitchen.

"Yeah, sure." I'm still shaky from that ipecac overdose; don't have to do a whole lot of acting right now. I don't remember a whole lot of what happened yesterday or the night I first showed up. My stomach's all fucked up, too.

"The dumpster's back by the service entrance," he says, handing me a black garbage bag. It fucking reeks.

I take it and now I hope to hell it's not leaking behind me. "Son of a bitch, that stinks!"

"That's what happens when you run a homeless shelter," Bill says with a laugh.

Yeah. Homeless shelter; I live here for now. Not that much of a difference, except I get to save some money. Dude's even my pro bono psychologist. That's just fucking weird. At least this is one of the really good ones.

There's somebody slouched next to the dumpster. Got to take care of the bag first, then check on the dude….ett. It's a woman. Jesus. Her clothes are shredded and there's blood between her….Fuck. "BILL!"

He almost stumbles out the back door. "What is it?"

"C-call an ambulance!" I don't like how my hands are shaking while I check for the woman's pulse. Blood's spurting up from her chest and getting all over my hands as I press down to try to stop her from bleeding out. I can feel the thrumming of her heart under my palms. That's not right. "I think she's been raped, man."

She gasps and her eyes open, locking on mine. God, she's so scared. "D-dem-demons."

"Hang on, help is coming. Just focus on me, okay?"

She grabs my right forearm with both hands. "Th-they know, D-Dean. Th-they w-want….a…sac…sacrifice."

"You don't have to talk, darlin.' I'll take care of you," I tell her softly.

She seizes in pain and I can't feel her heart under my hands anymore. "Come on, lady. Please."

Bill's kneeling next to me. "Dean, you don't have to be here."

"No. I can't leave. She said my name."

"I can't help you if you start having a flashback, go inside."

I wince. I hated coming up with that story, now it's gonna bite me in the ass. Luckily, I don't have to fake the nausea. "I'll be fine."

He looks at me. "Don't push this; you're still in a risky place."

I look down at the woman and shudder. Somebody had fucking sliced off her breasts. "Is she gonna live?"

"Go get me some towels out of the kitchen so I can stop some of this bleeding."

I stagger a little while getting up.

Bill puts a hand on my arm. "Dean, I mean it. Don't push yourself right now."

I shake my head and run to the kitchen.

Where are the damn towels?

Drawer under the sink.

Nothing.

"Fuck!"

There's a lady dying outside and I can't find the fucking towels!

Drawer next to the stove.

Nothing. Again.

There are sirens coming closer and she's gonna die and it'll be my fault!

I'm flinging open every single drawer in the kitchen and I can't find anything. What the fuck kind of kitchen doesn't have towels? "Son of a bitch!"

"Dean, stop," Bill says from the door. "Stop."

"What're you doing, get out there, she's gonna bleed to death!"

He shakes his head. "There's nothing I could do. The paramedics have her now."

* * *

I can't stand the cold water anymore. I turn off the faucets, stumble around for the towels. I had to do a quick search about ipecac overdosing on the internet. Looks like I'm out of commission for the next couple days. It explains the shakes, weird emotional shit and my lack of energy, though. That and my muscles are fucking aching all the time. Alcohol withdrawal or accidental self-poisoning; same thing, if you wanna get technical.

"Dean?" Bill's knocking on the door. "You doin' okay in there, pal?"

"Yeah. I'm good."

"Got supper on, we got some guests. Need you to help me dish out the food."

"Gimme a second to get dressed."

Bill's waiting when I open the door and he does a quick once-over of me. Wants to make sure I'm not trying to kill myself. Yikes.

"I'm not suicidal, man; I swear."

"Can't help it. Had a young man like you come through last month with severe PTSD. Killed himself while I stood out here."

No wonder he's hovers. "Sorry."

"Hungry?"

I haven't felt up to eating since yesterday; not sure I'll keep it down. "Not really."

"Try to swallow a little soup anyway."

Every homeless man or woman who goes past me gets a whispered "Cristo" over their plate, one flinches and I make sure to memorize her face. They know me; it's only fair I know who they are, too.

"You're alive, Bobby!" one old geezer's screaming as I pass over his roll. He comes behind the table and wraps me up in a reeking hug. "God, I saw you got your guts blown out!"

Jesus Christ. "I…Bill, a little help?" I try to get loose, but the guy's got me in a hard grip.

"Bobby, please don't disappear this time, I can't see that again," he's sobbing into my shoulder. He stinks, he's drunk and I feel like I'm gonna hurl.

"Donnie, let's get you sat down at the table, okay?"

Donnie backs up, pats my cheeks and looks at me like I'm his long-lost kid or something. "Don't you disappear on me like that."

I need to sit down, or go pass out. Maybe take a shower again. I glance over at Lady-Demon; she's staring at me, not touching her food. Do demons even eat?

"Dean, you okay?"

"Huh?"

Bill's walking me out of the dining room area with an arm around my shoulder. "Jesus, kid, sit down. You look about to pass out."

I collapse in the chair he's led me to. "Sorry 'bout that."

"For Donnie?"

I shrug.

"He does that to anyone he doesn't recognize when he's loaded. I figured you could use the space."

"Thanks." Wait a second; there's one guy I know who can maybe help me out. Thank you Donnie for reminding me. "Hey, Bill?"

He turns in the doorway. "Yeah?"

"I need to make a phone call, but it's to South Dakota. Do I gotta pay anything to do that?"

"Just as long as it doesn't start with one-nine-hundred."

"Thanks again." I look down at my hands; they're not shaking so bad. "For everything."

"It's what I do."

* * *

"You get a head count on 'em?" Bobby Singer's asking over his crackling phone line. Dude needs to update his wiring.

"Just two, so far," I tell him. "They've targeted me, Bobby."

"Where's your old man?" he asks.

"Hell if I know."

"Typical." He sighs and I can hear him moving books around. "What did you say that woman told you before she died?"

"They want a sacrifice." I try to keep fear out of my voice, but it's just not happening. "I'm not doin' so good, Bobby; accidentally overdosed myself on ipecac to get in here. Didn't mean to, but….I'm not up to my full strength right now."

He's laughing at me now. "Damn ijit. How many times do I gotta tell you to lay off the Method Actor crap? Where'd you learn about that shit, anyway?"

"Uh…" I'm not gonna admit that I sometimes watch _Inside the Actor's Studio_ if a hotel has cable and that I read acting textbooks. Looking this good isn't enough to open doors sometimes; I gotta act my ass off. It's harder than people think. "Never mind where I heard it. Just…do you know anybody who could help, or not?"

"Ever thought about getting Sam back in it?"

"No, Bobby. He's out of this life. I didn't half-raise that kid just to suck him back here for no good reason."

"Savin' your life ain't a good reason?" He growls.

"Why d'you think I'm callin' you? I need the best, and Sammy's a freakin' pre-law student. He's out of practice."

That got him. Bobby's a sucker for my boyish charms. I think he's wanted to adopt me, actually. "Don't do anything I'll have to bail your ass out of until I get there. Hear me?"

"Can't make any promises, Bobby." I was gonna ask him something else….Oh, right. "Hey, uh, how d'you know if the person in the body a demon's possessing is alive or not?"

The line's silent for too long. Does he even know? "I dunno, son. Most times, the soul of the poor sap's stuck in there with it no matter what."

Holy shit, that's fucked up. "Seriously?"

"Demons like to run their bodies to death and feel the victim die," he says in disgust. "It's how the sick fucks get their jollies."

I shudder at that. Great, now I'm getting queasy again. "What should I tell Bill?"

"Tell 'im I'm your uncle, you're gonna come live with me for a while and I'll be there in about two days to pick you up. Keep your eyes open an' don't you start getting trigger happy."

"Got it." Two days should be enough time for me to get all the shit out of my system and get a head count. The lady this morning was the first victim this week; the numbers have gone up to three per week now and I'm on their list. "I'll do some research about rituals and stuff, too. She said 'sacrifices.' It might tell us what they're up to."

"Good thinkin'. Be safe, Dean."

"You too, Bobby."


	3. Chapter 3

I told Bill I needed to get some air. The inside of my baby smells so good after sleeping in the homeless shelter. Sammy always used to tease me about my attachment to her, but…fuck him. I pretty much lived my whole life in this car. I didn't have to give up a security blanket, I drive mine. That's a little fucked up, but I don't care. I mean, come on, how can you not love this sexy machine after listening to her purr?

God, I need to get laid. Wonder where the locals hang out so I can go scope some chicks. Better buy condoms first.

* * *

The section on "occult" stuff at this library fucking sucks. It's all mostly stuff about New Age Wicca, crystals, that creepy-assed Sylvia Browne woman, reincarnation, Buddhist and Hindu overviews, fairy tales and folklore. The fuck is up with that?

My internet search is coming up with bupkis; can't get past those fucking family blocks.

"Ritual breast removal" is considered porn now? Oh yeah, this is the internet I'm talking about. Of course there's boob-hacking porn somewhere out there; fucking sickos.

* * *

Dinner is chicken dumpling soup again; this time at least I can eat some of it. Not as queasy, haven't thrown up for almost five hours now. I think the….shit. Lady Demon and John are talking and they keep staring over here at me. Wonder when they'll make their move; hope it's not before Bobby shows up. Damn, now my hands are shaking again.

* * *

Did the "Christo" thing while handing towels out to the four guys staying in the beds tonight; got three new flinches this time. Shit; means I gotta watch out for five demons now. What the fuck is goin' on with this?

I might have to have non-demon dude take the other bed in the room I've been using. He's fairly normal, I think; just one of those really unlucky bastards who lost his house, job and car to the economic crisis.

* * *

Where am I? How did I get here? "AAAAGH!" No, I can't move and somethin's got me by the throat! Can't breathe! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! "HELP!" Can't….breathe, it's crushing my shoulders…..can feel my collar bones…..God, they're gonna snap unless I… "Let me go, please!" Where's Dad? What's doing this? Can't fight it, it's too strong! "Stop…please, don't do this!"

"Dean, you're having a nightmare; wake up, son." Who's that? You're not Dad, who the fuck are you, where is my dad? Why isn't he here? He's supposed to be my back-up!

"Let me go!" I have to get away from this thing or it'll fucking kill me! "LET GO!"

"You're safe now, Dean. Just wake up. Come on, that's it. Wake up now." Whoever the voice belongs to, they're rubbing my back like I'm a freakin' toddler.

The claws around my throat are easing up; feels like I can't get enough air, though. Coughing hurts like a motherfucker. Wait, that's not coughs. I'm crying? When did that shit start?

"Shhh; it's all right. Take it easy, kid." Bill sounds really worried. Okay, it's just him. I'm not…damn it. Nightmares again. Fuck. I probably woke him up.

"Can't….couldn't fight….choking..." I can't catch my breath right now; probably shouldn't try talking. What's with this mental disconnect? I can feel my body having this fucking breakdown and having trouble breathing, but I'm still, like, being all analytical about it. That can't be normal. Shouldn't I be freaking out more? Is this what an out-of-body experience is like? God, that's a lot of useless thoughts. Come on, stupid, breathe. Deep breath in, hold it, let it out. Rinse and repeat. You remember this shit, lungs. Great, now I have the hiccups. That's real sexy. Note to self: no more fucking ipecac. EVER.

* * *

I told Bill about the nightmare; didn't remember much of it, to be honest. Glossed over the part about the claws ripping my stomach open; thinking about it makes me want to vomit. Again. I just want a damn drink.

"No, Dean."

"Huh?"

"You're detoxing; the last thing you need right now is more alcohol."

Shit, I'd said that out loud? "I'm tired."

He just gives me that dad-stare. "You've been through some heavy shit the last couple days. It's understandable. Think you can get back to sleep now?"

I nod, get up and now I can't remember how to get my legs to move. Being sick fucking sucks balls.

"Come on, kid, you'll feel better in the morning."

This is embarrassing.

* * *

Roommate's awake and looking worried. "Sorry about that, dude."

"Iraq or Afghanistan?"

I can't answer, don't wanna lie anymore. Letting 'em make up their own ideas is better; I don't actually have to talk. "I'm tired, man."

Guess he accepts that; doesn't say anything else.

The ceiling has cracks in it; I can make out some funky patterns. One looks like the Hulk swinging a giant banana at a porcupine. It's kinda cool.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Author's Note:**__ I don't own Supernatural. I also don't own the characters. _

Wipe the shower steam off the mirror, lather up shaving cream, prep razor. Yikes, I really don't look good with a three-day beard. Looks like I've been sleeping for a week, too. Need a haircut. At least I feel a lot better.

Bobby should be coming pretty soon; called him last night with directions. Told him about the five demons and started prepping an exorcism. My Latin sucks and memorizing it is a pain in the ass. I probably should, though.

* * *

"You need anything, don't hesitate to call me," Bill says, handing me his card. "Offer's open, if you still need a sponsor."

"Thanks." I shake his hand. Fuck it. I give him a quick hug. Dude's been a saint to put up with me for the last three days.

"Take care, Dean."

Bobby's looking at me like I've lost my mind.

"What?"

He just shakes his head as we walk toward his busted up old Thunderbird. That poor thing needs to be put out of its misery; I can hear its gears start seizing up a mile off every time he pushes down the clutch.

* * *

Baby Girl purrs as I drive toward the Lodestone Lodge. Bobby checked us in earlier, got two rooms.

First things first, though. I need me some pie.

* * *

Man, the way that waitress's butt sways when she walks…is not where my attention is supposed to be right now. Bobby's suddenly decided to slap at the back of my head. "Ow."

"Did you even hear a word I was sayin'?"

"Uh…something about opening a door for a father?"

"I said that five minutes ago, ya idjit."

Whoops. "You know I can't concentrate when there's hot chicks and awesome food in the same place."

He groans and shakes his head. "At least tell me you know the different body parts that're missin' from the victims. Might give ya a heads up as to what they're lookin' to take off you."

"They can have my appendix," I manage around my mouthful of cherry pie. Damn, that's good shit. I think I love this diner. "Mmmm, God, I could freakin' live here."

Bobby has no sense of humor right now. "Stop actin' like a school kid with ADD an' get your head in the game."

I have a mess of papers in front of me that laid out what he's talking about. I'm Dean the-speed-reading' Winchester. With Dad, I'd be permanently stuck on research duty if he ever found that out. "They took hearts, livers, and a couple pancreases from the first victims. I'm thinking they were going after organs that represent something to 'em. The breasts are new, from what I can tell. Nothing external was taken before."

"What do the breasts play into?" Bobby's stumped on that, I guess.

"Um…motherhood?" I don't have a clue, either. "Fertility?"

Dude, what's with the stink-eye this time? "Gitcher head outta the gutter, Dean."

"Hey, breasts are the visible indicators of child-bearing age on women; makes sense, if you think about it." Great, now I feel all tingly, and not in the good way. Stop trying to invert yourself, nothing's gonna happen to ya. "But, if they are going after the fertility pieces, I'm starting to get worried about 'Whee-chester' and the boys right about now."

Bobby's smirking and I think he might start laughing at me any second. "You named yours 'Whee-chester?'"

Maybe I don't exactly need to spear my piecrust that hard. "Forget you heard that."

From how his eyes are twinkling now, he's not gonna let me live that down any time soon.

"Anything else I can get you, gentlemen?" That sexy waitress is looking down at me. Oh, shit, she didn't hear me say the little guy's nickname just now, did she?

"Just your phone number." If I smile any wider, my jaw's gonna unhinge. "I might wanna call later and have you bring another cherry pie around to my pla-"

"Jesus, Dean, just give the lady her money." Bobby Singer, cock-blocker extraordinaire, ladies and gentlemen. "Would it kill ya to stop flirtin' for one second?"

I give her another one of my mega-wattage grins as I hand over the cash. Brings out those dimples in my face that most women go nuts over. "Sorry 'bout him. You can keep the change."

"I'll bring out your receipt." She leans down to my left ear, licks her lips and whispers, "I'll write my cell number on the back. Call me when you feel in the mood for…pie."

The way she said "pie" just…Whoo, boy. Please don't you give me a phony number on that receipt. "Thank you very much, Amber."

Bobby's rolling his eyes at me.

* * *

It's a damn good thing I bought those condoms earlier; I love having sex, but I've made that mistake before. So not worth the prescriptions.

"Ribbed for her pleasure?" Amber's reading the package. "Latex free."

"Never know if somebody has allergies. I don't, but it's not as much fun when my partner's going into that anaphalee….anna-flaxis….shock, or whatever it's called."

That makes her laugh as she's opening the rubber.

Whoa, her hands are really warm, and….uuhhh...oh, God, that feels so good.

* * *

Amber's sneaking out my room, but not before bending over to get her underwear and showing off her fine ass under that mini. "Damn."

"How long are you gonna be in town?" She's leaning on the hotel door.

"Dunno, couple more days maybe."

"Call me before you leave?"

I'm not sure I can read that look Amber's giving me. It's like she's trying to figure out if she wants to try for a long-distance relationship, or just wants to get laid. "Sure."

She shuts the door after giving me a sexy little pout.

* * *

There's a pounding on the door, but I can't get it; in the shower.

"Dean!" It's Bobby and he sounds riled up about something. "Open up, damn it!"

Rolling my eyes, I turn off the faucets. This always happens right when the water's getting comfortable. "I'M COMIN'." I grab a towel.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Author's Note:**__ I don't own Supernatural. I also don't own the characters. _

When did I go to sleep? God, I'm cold, why am I naked? I don't toss blankets when I'm…..hold on…..Fuck! My wrists are tied down! Maybe I can kick….no….ankles got tied, too. Damn it! When did I get jumped? Shit, Bobby! What happened to Bobby? Is he here? Where's here? Damn it, I can't see anything! I'm fucking blindfolded! "Bobby?"

Something cold, metallic and sharp is being run down the left side of my face. Yeah, that's definitely a knife. I'm fucked.

"You're such a predictable boy," Bobby says. There's a strained growling behind his voice that doesn't sound right. "Pretty, but exceedingly stupid."

"You're not Bobby," I tell the thing.

"Had you fooled long enough to open the door for me, cutie," a woman says, trailing the knife blade down to that dip where my throat meets my collarbones.

I force myself to laugh. "That tickles, baby."

The woman hasn't made a sound, but somehow she's down by my feet now. "I have the man Winchester. He was a lot easier to capture than you said."

Who's she talking to?

"He's being prepared."

Okay, she's busy talking to somebody, and probably on a phone. Maybe I can loosen….Ow, ow, okay, not happening. Whoever tied these ropes knew what they were doing; any kind of tugging tightens the damn things. Jesus, I can barely feel my fingers right now. Hang on….come on fingers, find something to grab…nope, that doesn't work either. A clammy hand landing on my chest makes me jump; at least I don't shriek like a little girl. My stomach is making little sinking flips as she starts checking the ropes around my wrists.

Is she humming? Seriously? Holy fuck, are her hands cold! She snickers. "You're so much smaller than I'd imagined, Dean."

"Well, yeah! It's fucking freezing in here!" I have to force another laugh or I'm gonna scream. My heart's going so fast it's making me dizzy. "I'm all for a little kink, lady, but I appreciate a little warning first, ya know?"

Demon-chick growls, which I guess for her is supposed to be "seductive," but it's all raspy as shit. It's next to my right ear, too. Damn it, she's like a ninja with how she pops up in random directions. That's really disorienting.

* * *

_"We all live in a yellow submarine, a yellow submarine, a yellow submarine. We all live in a yellow submarine, a yellow submarine, a yellow submarine."_

SHUT YOUR FUCKING CAKE-HOLE, JOHN LENNON. I HATE THIS FUCKING SONG. She's had this goddamn thing on a loop for….fuck, I can't even remember how long! We all live in a yellow….NO! Submarine, FUCK, I can't stop thinking the lyrics! SHUT THE FUCK UP! We all live in a….FUCKING SHUT THE FUCK UP!

There's a click somewhere, noises farther away than right next to me echo and I can't figure out where the fuck things are coming from. That bitch still hasn't taken the blindfold off. At least I can't hear that fucking song, except we all live in a yellow subma….it's not going away. We all live in a yell….can't stop….fucking Beatles! Ow! What the fuck was that? Who just stabbed me in the arm….needle….shit!

* * *

How long have I been here? Where's Bobby? He was here before, wasn't he? Am I on a submarine? Why did Dad send me on a submarine? I don't feel like I'm on a submarine; wouldn't I know what that feels like to be on a submarine? Why's it dark?

* * *

"Bobby?" I'm moving my mouth, but no sound is coming out.

There's something dripping on my face. It's wet and cold, so I lick my lips. It's just water.

"Bobby?" It's a whisper this time.

Nobody's here.

"Dad?" God, I sound raspy. "Where is everybody?"

* * *

There's a click and something starts buzzing over me; bad lighting. Chunk-chunk-chunk sounds go off, but there's no lightening in the darkness. Am I blind? Oh, God, I'm blind! No, I can't be blind! I don't have….there's no blindfold and I can feel the heat from the lights, but…. "What did you fucking bastards do to me?" Something's touching my foot! "What is that? Get it off! Get off me, you fuck!"

"This is not John Winchester, Shax."

"I smelled the blood of the man you sent me after, my lord, and this is he."

There's a deep growling from two voices on either side of my head. Jesus, that's fucking scary.

"My lord…." Shax-lady says, her growls are little whimpers now.

I need to get out of here! What the fuck is going on, why do they want Dad? Where is he? Why isn't Bobby coming in with him to save me? What's touching my hea….we all live in a yellow submarine, a yellow submarine, a yellow submarine. We all live in a yellow submarine, a yellow submarine, a yellow submar…stop….not me…thinking….no sense… "NO!"

"He will do, though the blood will not be as strong. The bond of brotherhood will have to suffice."

We all live in a yellow submarine, a yellow….Sammy! They're doing….submarine, a yellow submarine...using me to get….we all live in a yellow submarine…making me think….submarine….yellow….demons forcing….live in a yellow….can't stop….marine… "Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!"


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 1**

_**Author's Note:**__ I don't own anything of Supernatural, except for the DVDs. That's it. I am making no money from this; I'm simply experimenting with writing styles._

"Sacrificing takes time, Lord Astaroth," the Shax chick's voice is somewhere on my right.

Moving my head is…it's stuck? What the hell? What's it stuck on? Shaking doesn't work, feels like…metal clamps pressed on my temples or something. Ow. Note to self: don't jerk my head upward. At least I can sort of see now; mostly just where the light is and where it's not. Flatworm sight, I guess. That's what the dude on that National Geographic show about eye evolution said, anyway. Flatworms can't see shapes, just light or dark, or whatever. Fuck this, I gotta bust out somehow. "Unnngh! Let me go, you fuckin' demonic bitch!"

"Silence, Winchester."

"Mmmmghgphhfmmmm!" She just stuck a cloth in my mouth! Blyech, thing tastes like motor oil and rust. Can you get tetanus this way? "Mmmphg ghigphhhgmghmm!"

"I said for you to be silent."

Oh God! I can't breathe! Demon-chick hits hard. Why do I keep getting in trouble like this? Okay, deep breaths through the nose, Dean. Don't gag, keep cal-Why's she taking it out now? That felt weir-"AAAAAHHH"…what the fuck just burned my chest? God, get it off, please! Get it off! I can't see what she's doing, why's this happening? Just get it off! "AAARRRRGGGHH!"

* * *

Dad, please come get me; I can't stand this anymore. I'm gonna die. I hurt…all over….they….they did….I can't see anything and it hurts. Dad, where the hell are you? "Dad, I can't see." I don't wanna die, though. Sammy's in trouble, I think. That's who they said they really wanted. I'm not…I'm just….a key to….to something. I need to warn him! I need to warn Dad about the demons! They need to know! I just…I can't move anymore. I'm fuckin' cold and I can't move. I can't….I…I just want the pain to stop.

* * *

"The sacrifice is nearly complete, Lord Astaroth."

"Good. Father will be pleased to hear it."

"He will be ready for the final bleed in five hours."

* * *

Dad, please. I need help. Didn't Bobby tell him I'm gone?

"Sammy….I'm…I'm sorry."

"He is fading. Soon we will have the location of the last blood heir."

"It had better work, Shax."

* * *

God, I'm so sorry I wasn't a better brother to you, Sammy. I'm sorry, Dad, that I couldn't do a simple exorcism job like you wanted. Bobby, I'm sorry I didn't listen to you. I'm sorry. "I'm….sorry."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

_**Author's Note:**__ I don't own anything of Supernatural, except for the DVDs. That's it. I am making no money from this; I'm simply experimenting with writing styles._

"Clear!"

OW. What in the fuck is that?

"Dean, stay with me, son."

Bobby? When did he get here?

"Don't you quit on me, boy."

There's a light again, it feels warm. I wanna sleep so bad right now.

"No, Dean, don't close your eyes. Stay focused, son."

I can't see where Bobby is, but he sounds close. "Bobby?"

Somethin' warm and rough's on my shoulder. "Right here, kid."

* * *

"Whaddya mean, you _**can't**_?" Bobby sounds really angry. "I don't care how close you are to findin' the bastard! Get your ass _**here**_!"

I can see, kind of, but it's hard. Things are fuzzy and it's…I'm tired. Looking at…a Bobby-shape blob. Tired. Pressure in my throat hurts and I'm so fuckin' tired.

"Your _**son**_ is in critical condition, _**John**_!"

Sammy's hurt? Why am I just lyin' here? I gotta get to him!

The Bobby shape is moving closer. "Dean, calm down. Calm down, you're gonna be okay, just calm down."

"Sssaagggaaahhh!" Something in my mouth is in the way. What is that thing?

Why is my arm all tingly? Heh, it's gonna float away. That feels funny.

* * *

"Dean?"

Light…flash…Ow. "Goway."

"Calm down there, idjit, let the doctors do their test."

Bobby's here again. I like it when he's here; it's safe.

"Dad?" Where…I have to tell him something. It's important. "I need…tell him we all live inna yellow submarine."

"Easy." Bobby's pushing me back into the bed. "He's comin' soon."

I have to grab his shirt to keep from falling. "Sammy's….he's a yellow submarine!"

"I know." He helps me lay back better. "Shhh, relax."

"We all live in a….Sammy! I need…submarine…yellow submarine."

Bobby's not so blurry anymore and I can see him clearer up close. I think he's scowling. "Doc, he's not makin' much sense."

I don't understand. How can he not understand that Sammy's in danger? I have to make him know. "Bobby….Sammy is in a submarine! Have to….save a yellow….submarine."

"It's probably a result of the head trauma; it might clear up as the swelling goes down." A different man-blob is leaning in, but I don't know him. "I can't make any promises, though, Mister Singer. This might also be a permanent condition."

* * *

"He's stabilizing, Mister Singer, but these injuries have taken a huge toll on his body. He's exhausted."

"Dean's a stubborn kid; he'll pull through."

The man who isn't Bobby is laughing. "If he can make it through the next two days, he'll be out of the woods."

How did I get in the woods? I didn't see trees or anything. Just…lots of white squares with holes in them. That's not woods.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

_**Author's Note:**__ I don't own anything of Supernatural, except for the DVDs. That's it. I am making no money from this; I'm simply experimenting with writing styles._

God, my head's fuckin' killing me; what's goin' on now?

"Hey, Dean, how you feeling?"

"Daa."

"Yeah, I'm right here."

Something's touching my arm. My hands are cold.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here earlier."

"Where…" Yuck, what died in my mouth? "Wha' happen?"

"You were in surgery." A hand touches the side of my head. "The swelling went down enough that the doctors could reattach a piece of skull they removed."

"I don' have a skull?" Wait…that doesn't sound good. "But….my brain gonna get out." Did I seriously just say that? Fuck, what kind of drugs do they got me on?

Dad's laughing. "It's okay, Dean. They put it back."

* * *

I'm all floaty….I'm on a float….afloat. Heh, that's fun to say; afloat, afloat, afloat, aflort…flort…I florted. Dude, I'm so fuckin' high right now.

* * *

"You've completely lost your damn mind!" Bobby sounds pissed. "Demon huntin' is _**never**_ a solo gig! Any hunter worth a damn knows this!"

"I didn't know there was going to be five of them." Dad's voice is by the doorway. "It was supposed to just be the one demon. None of the signs pointed to any more than that."

"You _**knew**_." Bobby sounds ready to kill. I don't think I want to hear this. "I always thought you were a hard-ass on your boys, John, but I never thought you'd stoop to this."

"I had to."

"Get out."

"Dean's was tied into its plans somehow, Bobby. I had to know how." Why does Dad sound like he's trying to weasel out of something? "I read the signs wrong; it was supposed to be just the one demon."

"You son of a bitch."

"You're not their father, Bobby. You don't under-."

I think Dad just got punched out. That thud didn't sound pleasant.

"Mister Singer, is everything all right in here?"

"Get security to drag that drunk-assed piece of shit outta my sight."

"Sir?"

"My brother ain't allowed anywhere near my nephew's room anymore. Hear me?"

"Yes, sir."

* * *

Bobby told me his half of what happened.

After that bitch Shax took me, he trailed us for almost three states. I guess I was being hauled around in a semi, or something, and now I'm in some hospital in Illinois.

He called up Reverend Jim and Caleb; they stormed the warehouse and rescued my ass.

Bobby said that I died about three or four times; twice on the way to the hospital, and a couple times in the surgery.

Thing that hurts, though, is that Dad knew it was a trap from the get-go. He fucking _**knew**_! He set me up because he wanted information on what the demon was trying to do.

Worst part is that the ritual nearly worked; they traced Sam's location to somewhere in California. Whatever these demonic sons of bitches want with Sam, they know how to find him now.

Did dad know Sammy was the target all along? Is he setting my brother up, too? Damn it; I need to get to Sam. Maybe that'll draw dad out and I can find out what the fuck he's up to. Shit, now **_I'm_** thinking like the bastard. Great.

Sam does need to know that demons are after him, though.

"Dean, you all right?"

"Is it wrong that I kinda understand why Dad did it?"

"There's a difference between understandin' the man's motivation and just rollin' over to accept it as all right."

"I…I'm his _**son**_, Bobby." Great, I'm gonna start sniffling now. "Why did he do this to me?"

"All he sees right now is how close he is to finally getting revenge." Bobby's staring out the window. "Look, I never did like the way that son of a bitch treated you boys, and that's why I tried to stick around in your lives like I did. Saw him draggin' you two tykes around, treatin' you like…like extra tools, and I had to do something. So…I went outta my way to befriend the bastard; if he even understands the concept. Or, maybe he just sees me as another one of his valuable human assets. Either way, it got you two away from him for a bit."

I don't know what to say to that. Bobby's been savin' my life….my whole life. "What happens now?"

"When you get outta here, get Sam and stick together. Those demons aren't gonna drop it just 'cause they don't know his exact location. Don't split up, either. John'll use that and somethin' like this'll happen again."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

_**Author's Note:**__ I don't own anything of Supernatural, except for the DVDs. That's it. I am making no money from this; I'm simply experimenting with writing styles._

"Balls!"

I sit up in the backseat of the car. Doing that tugs pretty bad at some of the stitches in my chest. "What's up, Bobby?"

He glances at me through the rearview mirror. "Your brother ain' pickin' up."

"Does he ever?" I have to adjust myself a little, my back hurts.

"I called him earlier, while you were in the bathroom changing."

"And?"

"Wouldn't return my messages. All I got was a text sayin' he was 'taking precautions.'"

"I'll have to swing by for a visit, I guess."

* * *

I called Bill after I got settled in at Bobby's place, made sure he was still safe. I told him I was okay; my uncle was taking care of me while I recovered from my injuries and making sure I made my meetings. He was shocked to hear about John and his "cult." The fact that his best friend had killed six people, and then tried to kill me, really rocked him. He said the Walking Wounded center would have to shut down for a while and that he was going to take a vacation to clear his head.

* * *

Bobby's making breakfast; smells like bacon and pancakes.

I tried calling Dad last night, but he just won't pick up. It's been two weeks since I got out of the hospital and there's no word from him, other than a voicemail saying he was checking out some ghost thing out in Jericho, California.

I can't stay anymore. I need to get Sammy away from Stanford before the demons realize where he is. Dad's not gonna do shit, obviously, so it's up to me.

Wait, that's my phone. "Hello?"

"Dean…I…."

Reception on this thing is shit. "Hello? Dad?" Fucking phone. I'll let voicemail get it.

"Dean! Breakfast."

"Comin,' Bobby."

* * *

Dude, what time is it? Phone's buzzing at this hour? Jesus, hold your horses. Damn it, just the voicemail. Dad again. Might as well listen.

"Dean...something big is starting to happen...I need to try and figure out what's going on. It may... Be very careful, Dean. We're all in danger."

Shit.

Wait. I heard something. Need to slow this down.

"…_I can never go home_..."

The fuck?

Cryptic messages and EVPs. Nice.

Sammy's got a giant demon target on his back, Dad's gone and a spooky chick's on the playback.

Looks like I'm back in business.


End file.
